Knowledge was a small, largely irrelevant band in the earlier 2000's. That was, until they released a new EP in 2016 called "Rise Up To Die".

The tracks, Wake Up Call, Thrash Speak, The Truth is This, Soft Grind, The Aleph, and Something Moves Beneath, do something that has been done before, but never like this. The album talks about the truth of the supernatural world. Vampires, mages, werewolves, slashers, the secrets behind governments, these things are lain out bare in the album's songs, but something deeper, darker is shown.

Rise Up To Die features the first music to openly discuss The Truth. Listeners might be awakened to this, making the album increasingly dangerous.

Information on who Knowledge is, is incredibly thin. Most people who discuss the work online use male pronouns, but there is no good intel on the location of the artist himself.

A single was released outside of the EP as a standalone song called The Obsession.

Though much of the early music is lost to time and the lack of seeders for torrents, one fan collected six songs from the various albums into a compilation album, entitled "Red Tower & Others", featuring the songs Can You Hear the Whispers, My Child, Red Tower part 1, Tell Them What Death Is Like, The Tone, and You Cannot Leave It.

The music can be listened to here.

Knowledge was eventually freed of its prison within an angel of the God Machine. It sent the Allotment this message. It offered its aid to the Allotment to erase the Truth from the minds of those who know.

Lyrics[edit | edit source]

The Obsession[edit | edit source]

If you’ve come to tell me that I have woken ancient ghosts— I’m finally special with dirt and bleeding Such a somber opening for this hole I have made Memetic knowledge of the dark a hole is a boring wound slit gash, predator-rent Fear Fear Fear

So many more holes than this; an orifice per square inch and a burrow— everything living is hole

[feer]—to have reverential awe of/venerate/honor

Enough absences for all the kinds of fears A dismantled cause of this feeling Fearing for safety of danger real or imagined We all have enough options to absence

There is only one rule: No thing disinterred that cannot be replaced

No hole dug that cannot be filled I first begun the dig when asked a calling Some things were obvious A string coiled in the dirt that circumference drawing a hole shape

The contour of a hole is to be traced, This one a crack This one a fissure, there must be an empty, a broken space where the obsession begins My neurotic absence in this body a surface opening To form a hole something must leave

Sometimes a leak is not found for years A flaw, a fault, a thought shortcoming Often to fix: to ruin, So holes are always made to ruin You can experience this too

Stand under the sun spread your arms

A collected mess, lack of understanding Not always to burn becomes always burnt We just wanted to see, We’re always filling and opening our own mistakes You can fill them yourself sometimes these things end up in holes before they are holes Here let me show you

Above us are holes All of these holes need some light not every hole wants a light Some holes only work if there is none A cave is a hole until you go inside and it is lit and now it is a cave a burrow  a lair a den They can be deep like a well a thorough bred hole, a hole, a danger, a falling space, a well, a welling, water gathers from the earth. A reflecting place to drown

Holes can’t be too deep to fathom Eyes have watched them all there is no safety from measurement. A shadow can be used to garden light slit To give the one flower the light it needs without burning the rest Look to the alley or the closet or the empty hallway wrapped and enclosed

Go in them There are sorts of things that can live in these in-between spaces Holes have a way of being lived in         you do In some holes there are only bones, and the dust of bones and the things that live in the dust But they can be where the light gives.

Somewhere I’ve been to be There are shafts of light down here Can you name these light hollows? Holes have names like entrances You can call them or conjure them or cross them You can entitle them and decide them There are ways: Draw a circle color it in. Is this your shape But this is aside—

It’s our job to fill them each a measurement to take Hole-making a hobby a gift I have misused Hole-watching a prescience I have wasted Common misconception that the worst live in the dark

There’s a peace to sycophantic light-bearing An argument in myselves Crisis always seeks remedy What did you do, no Ask where you should be Is this your hole?

Some holes must be gone to A hole cannot be so dark I am certain it is endless, but it can be so dark I am worried that it is All darkness is a defect I dug up some disturbing information

Everywhere we are a hole

Holes haven’t asked yet what we hope to accomplish Leaving me with them, are you listening I’m feeling the rims of each hole but we can spit and wet every hole and never listen well enough A commitment to nonexistence I see all the holes They are everywhere, grating, run-off, concrete and metal I stop over holes in the road, They are there when you start to look The holes of the Earth that trouble me. Are you learning?

I often wonder if I do

I close my eyes and see my body, desiccate, hole-less. I owe everything to the things I am afraid of. When patterns are determined, there is always a need for excision. Must I help the holes? If I deny them what will be left when I look, a sheer light? What if I schism or absent.

Can you describe a hole without its borders I can make it out now this hole I’m making You can look at the edges to see whose shape it is. I was thinking we might just imagine them No matter the motion of my hands the constant dig of the hole asking move me here, move me there There are no more spaces now than there were.

I’m not hiding these bodies I’m putting them away But is there any reason to dig Who am I asking There is no right way when digging no direction to be heading or way to go just a pathological descent, a new desire to begin building down.

Do you think light knows? Or will it always look at things it shouldn’t. My fingers found openings they ought not have.

Which worry might be the right one I grab the edge of a hole and pull  and feel my holes move with a hole shape 

An explanation without borders There’s a similar hole in our heads, a sort of venereal absence a list of fears and desires which a hole understands fill it with whatever you see. I am a spoiled child needing to own things and name things I don’t These body holes are just the softest and easiest to collapse.

There are often memories of holes Holes can be very memorable There are quiet echoes in the hole shape a resonating silence to the holes I have dug I can ask are you the same And they respond:

i am no more than always been a singular shape a noun like breath a singular shape from the weltering

Do all holes sing together? What sort of song? I can’t help but dig and wonder and dig A rhythm in tandems What sort of possibilities are there for holes at all What is a hole but an absence and the object Am I digging a hole in the earth, or am I just spreading it around?

Do you understand a hole now? If it’s dug would you know what to do with it    If I dug and dug would you begin to fill What if I told you there was no bottom to the hole would you find a way to fill it anyways?

What kind of obsession can be like this, how many times can I dig or fissure my flesh, and what sort of alleviation does the dirt bring? What sort of hole is there in a hole shape? I am down this empty too long to be still dreaming. With every violence I absence.

The holes are pulling up dirt rock concrete water husks of bugs and artifacts and hides and hair and skin and civilizations and histories stone stone and stone Pulling up everything. And there’s the dust and the broken nails and the blood and your fingers and your flesh and your sweat begotten fatigue.

Excavation is costly like revisionism is dangerous The world is not your oyster You are digging too far. Of the things that still remain aren’t the things that matter Sometimes it’s the quiet that weighs, like a splinter under the skin.

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